


Snowmelt

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Pretentious Endeavour Slash [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Emotional Sex, Extramarital Affairs, First Time Bottoming, Guilt, Hero Worship, Infidelity, Introspection, Love, M/M, Making Love, Pretentious, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: Feeling too much, falling too hard. A successor of sorts to 'Road Head' and 'Saint Thursday.'





	Snowmelt

* * *

There are places they should be, and a place they are, and a world of difference in between. It’s nearly Christmas. From where he lies, Fred can see snow falling softly outside Morse’s window. He always feels the guilt keenest near the holidays – times when he should be content with his lot in life, his wife, his kids, his house, cozy and safe and warm. Endeavour’s room is freezing – the heat is dodgy at the best of times. (He’s not sure how the lad – all bones and pallor – can stand to live in it.) The men can see their breath in the air, and the blankets aren’t enough to completely remove the chill. Stark naked on the rumpled bed, Thursday shivers, only partly from the cold.

“You’re sure, sir?”

The ‘sir’ slips in out of habit. The boy still refuses to call him Fred consistently, but at least he refrains from forms of address entirely on occasion. Once, in a moment desperate and heated, he’d called him ‘Dad.’ Fred had insisted he wasn’t offended or sickened or anything – it wasn’t really his business, what Morse saw in him. Surely the boy had his reasons for taking up with an old man. Really, it was hardly shocking that he might want a paternal figure – in his life or in his bed. Still, Endeavour had never said it again. Sometimes, Fred surprised himself, wishing he would.

“I’m sure.”

He is, too. He trusts this young man – this beautiful, raw, temperamental young man – more than he trusts himself. He can’t predict him nearly as well as he can predict his own successes and failures, the limits of his self-control, the mortal frailties, but he still trusts him. He’s been curious for a long time – wanted to try long before he worked up the nerve. He knows Morse will make it good for him. He knows, and yet, he finds he’s holding his breath.

A slick finger traces about, a gesture as alien as it is intimate. It pushes in. Narrow, bony, it claws and scrapes inside. Fred knows what it’s searching for – knows enough to expect how it might feel – how Morse reacts when their roles are reversed – so he exhales slowly, willing himself to loosen his muscles, to lie, complacent, beneath the younger man.

Two fingers now, curling and parting, working him open like he’s some virgin girl. It’s strange, feeling rudderless, adrift, at his age. He’s not quite hard, and not quite sure he likes how it feels. On his back, covers bunching against his spine, vulnerable in ways he wasn’t prepared to be, retraction is a bitter taste in his mouth. To admit defeat now reeks of cowardice, and it strikes him as funny, in a sick sort of way, that it’s _backing out_ of this that’s making him question his manhood.

The questing touch finds its purchase at last and all thought evaporates into a white mist of bliss – gone before he can lose himself in it properly. He chases the high, moves his hips, tosses his head and finds himself pinned by the intensity of Morse’s gaze.

It’s a little bit lustful, a little bit scared, and mostly indecipherable – the look of a man looking upon some manifestation of the divine that is so visceral, so close to true perfection that it’s blinding. He is not worthy of the look – he is so, so far from what he sees reflected in those blown-wide eyes that it terrifies him and leaves him falling – falling from the pedestal and down to the reality of his middle-aged, mortal flesh, to the tremors of the muscles in his loins as he coats his belly, his prick untouched and dripping.

He surprises them both when he reaches for the hollow of the young man’s hip, tugging his blunt angles closer until there’s something blunter still pushing hot and insistent at him.

“Sir –”

“In me,” he hisses, _“now.”_

And like a good little acolyte, Endeavour obeys, spearing him, into his bowels, his guts, his tripe. Images flash behind his eyes – Italian pastoral crucifixes, the idle stare of wooden Christs; Saint Sebastian's athletic frame, skewered with arrows; Win beneath him; _Morse_ beneath him, and above him now, some kind of angel, bearing down on him in cosmic judgement.

He’s not aware he’s weeping until the boy’s mouth finds his cheek, murmuring words too sentimental, too soft for what he’s feeling. He is flayed, made new, all tight, pink skin. It is a stinging, impossible feeling, entirely too powerful for him to bear. He tries to speak and finds himself regressed to a point before language. The universe is unnamed, unmade – the universe _does not exist_ beyond the movement of Morse’s hips, the heat of his breath, the way he’s quickening his pace until it’s savage, violent.

Fred had always been put off by the ecstasy of martyrs. As a boy, he’d thought it mad – to face one’s own undoing delighted at the mortification of the body. Here, his soul presses insistently at the places he’s feeling frayed, bright heat and sharpness that surges forth, spills from his eyes in tears, from his pores in sweat, from his lips in a broken, pleading groan. His ears ring with the words he’d say if he could still form them with his slack mouth, bombarding him with revelations of startling clarity.

_I love you, I love you, God help us both, I love you, and it’ll ruin us, because I’m too selfish to let you go, and you could do so much better than this. A married man – your superior – the sort of tawdry office romance that’s the stuff of bad pulp novels –_

And then he feels it – feels himself marked by pulse after pulse of another man’s ejaculate, molten hot inside, and it’s all he can do to find the young man’s hand and squeeze his fingers – still slippery with the grease that eased his way. He finds his voice then, rasps with a throat that aches.

“That’s it, son. That’s my boy. My Endeavour. So good – you’re so good.”

He runs his hand along the boy’s quaking flank, steadies him as he collapses into his arms, flushed and trembling.

“My good lad, shh… Daddy’s got you.”

It just slips out, and it makes Endeavour sob, even as his hips twitch and he nuzzles closer, tactile, eyes shut tight. They’ve stumbled upon too much, together – more than they were ready for, either of them. Fred can only soothe with gentle words and caresses as his thoughts race, and if his mind is full to bursting then how must his brilliant lad be coping, mute and shuddering, at once both close and miles away?

There are so many things he wants to say in the ephemeral sanctity of the moment. In the end, he’s as silent as the snowfall, his words melting on his tongue.


End file.
